"Horror movies suck".
Aaren Heptesz sat in his faded brown recliner, his feet propped lazily up on the footrest, a black remote control gripped loosely in his hand, his eyes bloodshot and sagging with boredom. He sat there, in the centre of his living room, lights turned down low, gray tabby cat sleeping peacefully on his lap, with a blazing television set before him, his fingers working sluggishly against the remote's buttons, as he flipped from one channel to the next in a failing attempt to find something worth watching. Unfortunately, tonight was Halloween - Aaren's least favourite holiday, and there was nothing that wasn't horror-related - Aaren's most loathed genre - playing this night.
Aaren groaned with indignation. Had it been any other day in the year, he'd have had some something decent to watch, like Star Trek: Portals or Mutants 2.0. Yet it was Halloween, and everything worthwhile had been pre-empted for the sake of showing proven shit like Diabolical Death 2, Transgenderizer, or Porn Star Razor Massacre. It irked him - how could anyone in their right mind air films like these? Anyone could see they were all made from the same recycled bit parts from the same negatives tossed out by the same failed film students who had never learned to read beyond a Playboy-grade level and move out of their parents' basements. With all the letters of complaint he had written and sent out to the various stations, one would think the corporate bigwigs would take his well-argued arguments to heart and finally take action. Things went on as they always did, though, the same old scenario playing out year-by-year without the slightest deviation. Aaren, at least, had one tried-and-true method for bucking the system which never failed to work; no trick-or-treater came to his front doorstep after 4:00 PM, the time he turned all his lights off for the evening.
Aaren continued to surf through the stations, one at a time, pressing the arrow button with unceasingly coordinated rhythm, for the next five minutes. His screen flashed blue-to-white between brief captures of various maurading monsters and screaming victims; blue-white-roaring vampire, blue-white-stabbing killer, blue-white-burning victim. When the various maniacal screams and fits of laughter came to a sudden halt to be replaced with relaxing Carribean music, Aaren's hopes quickly went up; there, on-screen, was a fine sand beach with palm trees swaying gently in the breeze of a bright blue sky - this was obviously not a horror film! The camera panned to the left, and a homely bleached blonde with mismatched breast implants suddenly came into view. A hoarse female voice issued various salacious promises off-screen, and Aaren noticed the ten-digit phone number enblazoned on the bottom of the screen. His hopes sank as he realized what it was he had found: a phone sex ad, and a bad one at that.
With a sigh, Aaren hit the POWER button, and with a brief white flash of light and a pop of static, the TV went dark. He set the remote down on the tray to his right, then nudged his sleeping cat, Cornelio, awake; the feline rose, stretched, gave a silent yawn, then leapt down to the carpeted floor and trotted off into the darkness. Disinterestedly watching the cat depart, Aaren issued his own yawn, then pushed himself up and out of the recliner and started on toward his bedroom. He shut the single lit lamp standing by his bedside off, casting the room into complete blackness, then - after taking a moment to fluff up his pillow - collapsed atop the mattress. In moments he was out light a light, and in a few minutes more he began to snore. Before long he was already slipping into a deep sleep.